“Anticorruption is a long-term battle, Chen,” Zhao went on, “not a matter of an isolated case or two. The Party Discipline Committee is very pleased with your work. Once again, you have proven to be a loyal, resourceful Party cadre in a difficult situation. Indeed, we need young, reliable comrades like you to continue the anticorruption effort in the future.”

“Thank you, Comrade Zhao, but-”

“It’s a long phone call. We’ll talk more upon your return. What about a celebration dinner in my hotel? I know you like good food-the chef here has won the gold award for Sichuan cuisine. The carp in hot broad-bean sauce is a must. I have a bottle of Maotai for you. Remember the two lines by Liu Guo-Had General Li met with the First Emperor of Han, / he could have easily been a duke?”

“Yes, I do,” he said.

General Li, a legendary figure of the mid-Han dynasty, might have achieved more under another emperor. Liu Guo, a down-and-out Song dynasty poet, spoke about his own frustration through the tragedy of that unlucky general. What the equivalent to a duke in today’s official world would be, Chief Inspector Chen had no idea, but he was far from reaching that level yet.

“At your age, I liked the two lines very much. But what happened during those years, you know. Now the time is totally different. A young man like you can and should do something,” Zhao concluded. “You will not let me down, I believe.”

Closing the phone, Chen remained in confusion, his thoughts muddled and muddy like the waves rolling under his gaze. He had never imagined such a conclusion for China ’s number-one corruption case.

Perhaps Comrade Zhao had said what could be said, and the rest was unspeakable, or unknown even to the old man.

The Party authorities had planned to punish Xing and all the associated officials, Chen did not doubt that. But the situation had developed out of control, with too many-and at too high positions-involved in the case. So that might have been one of the reasons that the Party Discipline Committee had initially enlisted Chief Inspector Chen, as Yu had guessed. He was part of the show for the Chinese people, while at the same time secret negotiations had been under way with Xing in the States.

Would Xing cooperate by revealing all the secrets? No one could tell. Nor was it that important. After all, the Beijing authorities could have pushed to the end, as declared in the People’s Daily, with or without Xing’s cooperation. Rather, Xing’s return was significant more as a sort of successful hushing-over, so the sordid details of the government corruption would never come to be known. So that was it. Some of the red rats might be punished, but selectively, not at the expense of the political legitimacy of the Party. It would be just enough to show people the Beijing government’s determination to fight the evil.

And the message for Chief Inspector Chen was unmistakable: the investigation was at an end. He should be satisfied with the conclusion, and with the acknowledgment made by the Party authorities of his work.

But what work? The chief inspector wondered.

What about An?

And for that matter, what about Little Huang?

Had Chen not pursued his investigation the way he had, the two might not have fallen, one of them totally innocent. He could choose to tell himself, of course, that he had no choice, that it was a matter of life and death for him, and for the country too, and that there are different perspectives on everything. As a Party member police officer, he had reasons to be contented with his work, as Zhao had declared.

Still, Chen could not get rid of a haunting sense of guilt. Instead of brooding over it, he tried to think what he could do upon his return to China. An’s murderer still had to be caught, though probably not by him. As for the young interpreter, however, the case might never be traced back to those really behind the scene, thousands of miles away, who might be raising their cups in celebration at this moment, behind the high wall of the Forbidden City, where the order for the murder in St. Louis had come from, Chen supposed, rather than from L.A.

A siren resounded over the river. For all the satisfactions expressed by Zhao, his phone call came close to an undeclared suspension of Chen’s emperor-special-envoy assignment. It was undeclared, perhaps, because he was still abroad with the delegation. So he’d better go back into the casino hall. It might not matter much if his fellow writers lost some money, but it would be another story, he thought of the diplomatic troubles mentioned by Zhao, if something unpleasant happened to them in the boat.

When so many things are absurd, nothing is really absurd.

To his relief, Chen saw them all gathered in a corner on the first floor, next to Bao, who was still sitting on the stool, pulling the slot machine handle, his cup quite full now. Shasha held a cocktail in her hand. Peng and Zhong kept smoking. They might have lost their pocket money, and they appeared relieved at the sight of Chen. It had been a long phone call from China. Catherine came to him with a check in her hands.

“I waited for you for a long time. I didn’t think you were coming back to the table, so I cashed in your chips,” she said simply. “It’s quite a lot of money. There’s no point pushing your luck too far.”

It wasn’t that much, about fifteen hundred, but she had made the right decision. His luck couldn’t last that long.

“Well.” He pulled several bills out of his wallet. “Let’s make it two thousand and send the money to Little Huang’s family-in the name of our delegation.”

“Damn it,” Shasha said, emptying the money out of her purse. “Only twenty bucks. That’s all I have left today.”

“We don’t have to do that,” Bao said, clutching his full cup. “The Beijing authorities will take care of things in the proper way.”

“We don’t have to do this, and to do that,” Chen snapped. “Little Huang died for us-because of us. He was not even a so-called writer like you and me.”

IT MIGHT BE HIS last day in St. Louis, Chen supposed, stepping into the shabby motel near Jefferson Road. Behind the motel, not too far away, the Arch stood silhouetted against the gray sky, still, splendid as always.

He had been told to meet with Feidong, a military attaché from the Chinese Council in Chicago. The meeting was arranged more out of formality, though the location of it intrigued Chen. They could have met in the hotel where the delegation stayed.

Feidong conveyed his congratulations to Chen on behalf of the Culture Ministry and the Foreign Ministry. Then basically the same message: in view of the new situation, the delegation would return to China. Speaking as a government representative, Feidong showed proper respect to the chief inspector.

“The leading comrades in Beijing are pleased with your work.”

“What work?”

But there was no point arguing with Feidong, or even raising the question. He might not have any clue what work Chen was really engaged with here.

“Well, they are concerned with the safety of the delegation,” Feidong went on without directly responding to his question. “If anything else happens, it would be a diplomatic disaster. Then, huge responsibilities.”

So the meeting was not merely one of formality. It functioned as double insurance. After Zhao’s talk, the message was reiterated more like a warning. Chen had to lead the delegation back. Period.

Chen remained polite, saying little throughout the meeting, because it was a decision he had to accept. There was no point in fighting it.

“Also, there will be no mentioning Comrade Huang’s case whatsoever to the Chinese media. The delegation members are not supposed to talk or write about it upon their return.”